Call Me the Thorn
by Rasco
Summary: The life of the deep thinking psychic pokemon, Mewtwo, after he takes to living a life of solitude in the city with books and ideas as his company. He lives to watch, learn, and enjoy that which has been given to him, Life.
1. Fiction

Pungent smells of methane and body-oder filled the air, making it unbreathable for the few who had not adjusted to city life. Sure the humans and monsters who had lived there for years did not mind; long ago their sense of smell had been reduced to cut out the unpleasing stanks of the city. Tourists would mumble, "Didn't know it would smell so bad," while the citizens merely passed off the visitors as uncultured and isolated. Who could visit this vast metropolis of human achievement where the skyscrapers replaced the trees and the city's roadways replaced the rivers and trails that ran through a land that had been wild, untamed, and untapped of it's potential, and could not appreciate it? The city was it's own master; one that was unforgiving towards those who would not bend to its workings and wonders. People who had come to the thriving colony had come on dreams, hopes; with visions of themselves rising to the top of their trade. Those that were lucky found work in their field, and soon became content in their lowly cubicals while daydreaming what it must of been like in that CEO office. The ones who did not find favor with the spirit of gambling however fell through the cracks, either by their own or by no fault of their self, and vanished to decompose and add to the cities degenerate population. 

Minds; that was the thing that stuck out the most with him. In such a contained place thousands upon thousands of minds were thinking, scheming, worrying; each unique and stark in contrast to the other. It had taken him awhile to learn how to adjust and tune most of them out. He was a stranger, a guest to the city that had so graciously provided him a home and hiding place. He akined himself to Ulysses when the man stepped off his boat and landed on the shores of Troy; gazing in amazement and wonder at the walls he would work on for seven years to breach.

Ulysses.. a selfish human being; the creature thought to himself as he stepped away from the gargoyle statue that ordained the top of a local house of Gods. Decades ago the creature guessed that the religious buildings, probably the very one he stood on, towered over the smaller apartments and shops; a constant reminder to the populace that there was something bigger then the self or the material belongings. The creature didn't know when the first skyscrapers had been built or where; he did not trouble himself with useless trivia. Still, he wondered if the many priests or magi workers gazed in silent dejection on that first man-made mountain; lamenting at the human urge to revert back to the tower of babel. It was probably it was the same time humans really became interested in where they came from and how they worked, and for all the creature knew it could of been mere years until there was research into his creation; a clone of the mother of all monsters.

Clone, the creature told himself; vocally giving out a short laugh as he ducked into the tower that adorned one side of the chruch and began to asend the staircase; hovering inches over the ground as he followed their winding trail up. The creature had long ago learned that the label he had been coined with was false, for he was more hybrid then clone; and more human then most. Certainly more so then the humans that made him.

Ulysses, the creature reminded himself as he continued his ascent, imaging himself as the crazed hunchback from a storybook. A disillusioned man who kidnapped a girl just so he could bring a bit out the outside world to him, using the bells to lament her death by his own hands before throwing himself from the heights. Both Ulysses and the hunchback were selfish things; just as the creature had been. Ulysses wanted the battle and his fame, tricking his friend Achilles into joining a fight he knew he would die in. The hunchback wanted belonging and peace for himself, and was convinced that he was a spinster rejected by the world. He wanted love.He couldn't give it, but he wanted it. Both characters were remembered for doing horrible things, and as the creature reached the top of the bell tower he wondered if he would be remembered as such.

The winter's air bit as his face as the creature rose through the trapdoor, ducking the German bell that looked ready to break from lack of use overhead. He moved to the ledge and looked out on the city, enjoying the view as he had done so many nights before. While most of the skyscrapers were more then three times the size of the house of gods the creature occupied, those buildings were more situated towards the north and away from the port to the east. From the bell tower the creature was at the heart of the city, situated comfortably between uptown and downtown where he could watch and learn from the humans he had once called foes, along with the Monsters who he had once sworn to destroy along with them.

The creature pulled the brown blanket around him tighter to protect himself from the wind; the edges trailing off to flap wildly to one side. It was a disused piece of cloth he had taken from an empty crate lined with garbage bags. It served as a means to keep warm on the colder nights. It did little more then that; for the creature had no intention to swoop from roof-top to roof-top playing superhero to atone for his sins of years ago. What was past was past; and now he was comfortable to live a life of observation and thought.

Across the way stood a run-down apartment, and the creature amused himself for a few moments to scan the minds within. A family making the best of no heat by sleeping together, A man who's mind was filled with lust as he watched a girl he had paid for the night strip in front of him, and a teen huddled against one wall shaking in sheer terror as he came down off the high he had achieved minutes before. The creature dwelt on the druggie for a moment before shutting off the world again, looking once briefly to the night sky above before retreating back to his home, his sanctuary. He had come only for a breath of air; the height allowing him to rise above the smoke and smells of the city below. He would not linger to stare at the skyline, for he was tired from the night and wanted to sleep. Towards the horizon the light of dawn could be seen, and already the creature was feeling sleep pull at the lids of his eyes.

The house of gods was marked for demolition; but with all the paperwork and protests for protection the government seemed to of just allowed the place to stand as it was; thinking it fit well along with the rotten housing that lined the street with it. The bell hadn't been rung for years, and no longer did the group of followers of whatever religion who gathered to read, pray, and try to find understanding in life gather here. The creature made his way though the abandoned chambers before he reached his home, passing old rooms that had once held an alter, a tomb, a reading room, or the occasional bedroom. The building was large, dark, and gave off a Gothic impression that fit the creature quite well, thinking he looked more like the gargoyles on the walls outside then his parent. It took several minutes of wandering before the creature reached his own bedroom, the basement.

It reminded him of home; well, his last one anyway. Stone walls that were uneven and rough that seemed to close in tight around him, cobwebs that hung in corners, and a hard floor that radiated the cold of foundation below; just like the cave he had used for his living years ago. In one corner laid a rolled up Futon that served as his bed, and as he descended into the quickly growing darkness of his home he gave the merest thought to a rack of candles by a wall, as if on cue they burst into flames to shed light on the small twenty by twenty room. The floor was bare except for the wrappings of his last meal (a chicken wing he had snatched from a street-vendor) and a pile of books that sat by the futon. The books..he forgot. He was going to put them back where he had taken them. It was no problem, the creature told himself as he crossed the small space and spread out the bed with gesture of a paw. There was always tomorrow night; and he wished to see if Alyss was going to cross the looking-glass again back home. His eyes scanned the covers of the books; _Hamlet _(a stupid tale), _Goldfish_ (Hypocritical), _The Island of Dr. Moreu _(a favorite), and _The Looking Glass Wars_. All of the books he had picked at random were from the fiction section of the city's library that he had stolen into at night a few months ago. It didn't bother him that he was taking them; he had always tried to return the hardcovers and paperbacks he borrowed within a week or two. He felt sure that the library curator (a young women who's mind was always focused on what others thought of her) would feel puzzled if she noticed that a book or two were missing, but it was better then just walking up and asking face-to-face, he felt.

The creature scratched at an old scar that till hurt, lowering himself onto the padded surface of the bed before curling up around his side. His tail gave a slow wave before it followed suit beside him, and he took the moment to open _The Looking Glass Wars _and find where he had left off the night before. He figured his cat-like ancestor slept in the same way he did, though he had not actually witnessed his 'parent' sleep at any time. He doubted it would be reading anything; although the whimsical readings of _Alice in Wonderland_ did seem like it would fit the other psychic perfectly.

Past is past, the creature reminded himself before turning the page and starting a new chapter; wondering exactly how that other psychic would react if it saw the way he lived his life now. The thought was pushed aside as the creature immersed itself into the wonderland that was not the same as the wonderland many thought it was. It was where the Cheshire cat was really an assassin of the evil queen Redd and was sent to kill the Princess of wonderland.It was where Madd Hattigen was really a royal guard, and it was where the white rabbit really wasn't a white rabbit at all. As he lost himself in the words, the creature wondered if they would write about him in the future; the few who knew he existed. Would anyone believe that it was true, or would it be pushed into the 'children's reading' section of the library like so many others? 

He recalled a quote, yet forgot the writer..Kuntz? Koony? The creature had gotten to know the Authors and their writings so well now. Something about dragon tears being bitter, and life, or something to that extent. Mewtwo didn't care; the train of thought ended there as the pokemon returned to the words in the book; content for now to escape the city-world he called home for an hour and picture himself in the wonderland that the book suggested, fighting Redd's card soldiers alongside Alyss.


	2. Of Stone

Chapter-- Of Stone

The presence of a mind too close stirred Mewtwo from his sleep, and as his eyes opened to take in the dark basement that was his home he could hear a faint 'Tap-tapping' of someone walking on the floor above. Should he had not been a psychic, the Mewtwo would of probably freaked upon waking. But along with the sound came a flow of information; and he knew the stranger better then any police file that could of been drawn up. In truth; it wasn't a stranger. It had taken awhile for Mewtwo to adjust to the fact that the building was not as empty as he wished all the time; but he knew well that the person would not break a vow. There was one advantage to these religious fanatics, Mewtwo thought to himself as he yawned and stretched out his back; they become predictable.

Mewtwo stared at the half-open book that was on the floor beside him where the final few pages gone unread. He was disappointed; it ended as a typical fairy-tale might. A Macrabian twist and darker tone to this book did it far better justice then the original, yet still he couldn't help but feel that the happily ever after ending was..forced. Thrown in. It was as if the author had decided not to take the risk with a sadder ending; where Alyss never recovered after she slayed Redd and wonderland was thrown into a cycling state of boring government and civil movements. No, Mewtwo corrected himself. That wasn't dark ending. It was realistic, unfitting for this day and age where the humanity he watched seem to yearn, just as he did, for the happy ending that was just out of reach.

In the background he could just make out the sounds of city-life, the noises and roar of cars and people muffled by the layers of dirt and stone overhead. He tracked the mind that he knew was mere meters above his room, feeling him wander around the main hallway before stopping at an alter that was near the southern door. He could feel a few moments of genuine prayer coming from the man; but it quickly turned into anxiety and slight confusion. Mewtwo suspected as much. The man had not only come for his daily prayers and sacraments, but to see if he could catch a glimpse of the 'demon' living in the building.

The pokemon was not, or ever was, careless. He always knew the exits, who was nearby, what the risks were, and what the best method of escape was. He had shown himself only after weeks of watching the 'monk' and trailing him at night. He lived alone, avoided most public venues, and he seemed to not visit anyone else for the week that the Mewtwo had followed him. Mewtwo had learned in a series of mental probes that he had no family save for the two pokemon he cared for, that he lived his life for his god, that he was the curator for the building, and that he was extremely superstitious.

It was the perfect setup. He had waited until the monk had knelt to pray by some statue in the hallway before revealing himself. It was subtle; a quick dash from one end of the hallway to another which casted his shadow on the wall before the man. He had spooked him; but not as much as when he allowed the human to get a better clearer glance one time the night after. For a week the monk didn't return, and Mewtwo had feared that he had driven him to insanity. But still he came, prayed more feverishly, and looked over his shoulder more often.

Mewtwo was an attention seeker; a fact that he accepted long ago. Living in silence and isolation was all well and good, but even with all the reading he could get done he still got bored from time to time. He allowed himself to be glanced by choice people; the homeless, a late-night gang, the monk, all were just a few. He made sure it was to people who would not tell about the sighting or who would not be believed, and it was never more then a glance at his shape. He enjoyed hearing the thoughts afterwards; confusion followed by fear and then disbelief. They swore he was over 15 feet tall, that he had glowing red eyes and claws as long as carpenter nails, and that his wingspan could engulf a city block. Once, only once did a newspaper reporter happen to spot him against the half-moonlit night; and he could hear the minds of hundreds the day after about some flying creature that had scanned the city before. Luckly it died down before Mewtwo felt the need to move; and from then on he only flew out in the open during cloudy nights or new moons. Never did he fly uptown for risk of the light framing his body; but the docks were dark enough to lurk in nearly every night.

The tapping of footsteps finally dimmed along with the faint sound of a closing door; the monk had left. Mewtwo wrapped the futon with a wave of his paw (he hated leaving a mess) and balled up the trash from his last meal with a flick of his mind. Most of his days were spent reading and meditating; although he knew that he needed air and a good stretch every few days or risk losing muscles to lack of use. He gathered up the books in a second thought and hooked them in tow to himself, picking up his blanket in the same motion as he exited the basement and latched the door shut with a strut on the inside after he had closed it behind him. Anyone who came down would assume the door locked from the inside and, with no keyhole or handle present, guess that it was just a door that led to the foundations of the building.

Books floating beside him he exited the hallway and entered the upper floor; listening to the evening traffic though the stone walls of the building. He did not see a window; yet he still knew the exact date and time, a gift that he guessed was carried over from his parent, Mew. Sundown in less then an hour, new moon for two days. He would return the books, pick a few more to keep him busy for the week, and go hunting along the port for food from late-night vendors. Maybe, should he be lucky enough to catch a drunk stumbling home, he would have a bit of fun.

Mewtwo pushed aside a door a few floors up, scattering a new layer of dust that had settled before exiting the building by the yawning that stood some fifty feet off the ground. He took his time in tying a knot in the blanket around his neck, wrapping it around him to shield him from the evening wind as he huddled beside the same stone gargoyle as the night before. Most of the city was awake, but this street was already deserted. No cars; too poor a neighborhood. A couple of figures stirred in the alleyway across the street, trying to shove themselves into crates or boxes to protect them from the coming wind. The sky was dark already with clouds, and the Mewtwo could feel that snow was coming. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, and turned to look at the lifeless stone figure beside him.

It was a grotesque thing, carved to look something like a monster-dragon with teeth. Dragonite, Mewtwo labeled. It was probably back before they had been discovered and where considered mere myths. The artist of the stone took care in making every bit of it as ugly and terrifying as possible, and Mewtwo likened the thing after his own creation. Guesses on what it would look like, how it would act; all before it was finally understood. Don't look so glum, Mewtwo emitted in thought aloud to the rock. Be happy for what you have.

It didn't answer him; why would it? Still, Mewtwo guessed a reply along the lines of 'You try sitting on a piece of Gothic achievement for two hundred years mate, and we'll see if you look so glum'. Ouch, smart ass. Mewtwo grinned to himself, happy for the freedom he had instead of the gargoyle. He would end up like the hunchback, talking with the statues until he turned mad, but there was plenty of time before he would have to enjoy the wonders of insanity and "suffer" though this life he had been given. He was like a child, eager to know and learn more about the world that he had once tried to destroy, yet still carefree and unrestricted except from common logic.

He could think about it later. He had the night to himself, and he was looking forward to finding a new story to read about.  



	3. The City at Night

Chapter--The City at Night

The city looked so nice at night.

Mewtwo did not have hollowed bones to aid in flight, nor did he have wings to ride the lifts and drags of the air. Compared to other creatures were he was as un-aerodynamic as a car hurled off a building. The scientists did not build a slipstreamed body for flight; probably thinking it was not possible for him. As the psychic flew just below cloud-level however he couldn't help but feel what it may of been like to have wings to spread out and ride the currents of air that snaked over the city; a replacement from the water rivers that had once flowed through the land. He figured that this was how the children felt when that Peter fellow got them to fly to some second star on the left. Mewtwo knew it was just a story, but he couldn't help but glance up at the clouds above almost in search for that star. With the books he had taken with him in tow he continued south until he could see a darker section of the city, his destination.

The psychic pokemon descended in a controlled dive, recognizing the outline of the cities public library below. Most of this section of the city was set aside for museums and zoos; so there was no glow from nearby apartment buildings to cast a whole lot of light on the surrounding area. Most of the streets were empty san for a car here or there; the streetlights endlessly flashing their patterns of red yellow and green in the night. The first few flakes of snow began to fall; sticking to Mewtwo's short fur before he found the desire to set up a small barrier around him. No skipping in the snow for him now, he wished to remain dry and warm for the night. Not to mention he did not want to leave water inside the Library.

The rooftop was rather large. The building itself took up all of the block on one side and nearly all of it on another, and it left almost no room for the little bus-station that seemed to be half-heartedly tossed in place behind the Library itself. Mewtwo's eyes adjusted to the light to make out the recognizable mountains of glass that marked the skylights to the building; along with a raised hut that held the fire-staircase which led onto the roof. The pokemon approached the nearest window and wiped away a film of frost that had gathered on the glass, peering into the darkness into the open space below. He recalled the location of the nearest camera and which way it would be pointing before bringing the books in close, reaching deep into his mind to tap into that extra bit of energy he would need as he closed his eyes and moved his weight forward..

One step later and the air suddenly changed from the chilly winter sting of the city outside to the stuffiness of a closed room that had not been dusted for ages. The Mewtwo froze in place, dangerously close to coming into line of sight with one of the cameras mounted on the wall and aimed towards the center of the building. He took silent stock of his self, making sure the books were still with him along with the rest of his body. Teleportation was never a favorite with him. Breaking apart on the subatomic level and sending it from point A to point B was hard enough; but to bring along objects and go through barriers in his way always gave him a slight headache afterwards.

A few seconds later and Mewtwo could make out the layout of the Library. It looked larger inside then it did from the air; and for good reason too. Shelf after shelf of books were lined in neat rows from wall to wall, space set out just enough for a table here or a chair there to allow readers the comfort of never leaving. The air was empty air carried no sound, dust motes drifted by what little light was provided by the glow of a lamp. Mewtwo could tell by a quick sweep of the area that the building was as good as empty; the rent-a-cop on the first floor was sitting at the main desk thinking of food and the nightly cleaning crew had yet to finish the bathrooms in the main lobby. He had the second floor to himself for a bit, anywhere from a couple of minutes to an hour; though he didn't intend to stay that long.

careful to avoid the stare of cameras he could spot on the walls he left the pile of books he had 'taken out' in a small pile by one shelf. Humans were frequently hurried and unwilling to put the books back on the shelves where they found them, so piles of books in the isles were not an uncommon sight. His own pile would be picked up and sorted by the librarians in the morning, so he had no guilt at leaving them for others to sort and replace. Mewtwo made his way down the isles, hovering inches over the ground as he avoided the openings that would let a camera spy him or, in the case he couldn't go around, he did his best to keep to the shadows. With the way the Rent-a-cop was 'focused' on his job (this thoughts had just went from food to some woman wearing underwear) however, there was not a whole lot of fear for being spotted.

Mewtwo passed book after book, pausing to touch one lightly with his paw sometimes before replacing it with his mind. He never had a plan in hand when he picked out his reading; he would just wait to see what titles caught his eye and called out to him. It was a curious thing; Minds recorded on paper. It made sense that if humans were to record their memories or thoughts they would do it in a way that reflected how they thought; each page a wealth of information and every plot line going deeper as you dig deeper into the lines. Mewtwo gestured to a book that caught his eye and read the title, _1984_. Interesting.. He kept it in tow as he pulled out a second one, _Beowulf_, and replaced it just as quickly. He didn't rush; he allowed the air and randomness to guide him to first an isle, then a shelf, and then a book. It was almost like it was straight out of the book _The Pagemaster_. Time passed..

It was perhaps a half hour later before Mewtwo realized that the Rent-a-cop was starting his rounds, and he quickly added one last book to his floating stash before moving quickly back the way he came; recalling from perfect memory at what turns to take and which to avoid. He ascended the seven feet to the ceiling, tapping into his mind in a rush as he could sense the rent-a-cop coming up the stairwell nearby. His cloak fluttered in the wind as the smells of old books and worn wood vanished and he met the smog-suffocating taste of city air. He took quick stock of his belongings when...he panicked.

He could hear the dull thud of a book falling behind him and looked into the glass, brushing off another layer of frost that had smoged up the window. One book had not followed him in the teleport; it was the thick _Brothers Karamazov_ that he had pulled out last. Maybe he had been in too much of a rush and did not guess the energy needed corrected; or maybe he just screwed up. He could feel the emotions of the Rent-A-Cop as the human heard the noise and quickened his pace, and Mewtwo turned and took off without a second glance back into the night air. He didn't think that the human would be smart enough to look up and notice the window, or go back and go over the CCTV feeds to see if anyone had indeed been up as well. If anything, he would guess that it had just fallen off a shelf.

Mewtwo didn't know why he was flying so fast, grazing the bottom of air-traffic altitude dangerously as he wrapped a shield around himself to protect himself and the books from the snow. He got spooked; was fast to startle. As he thought back however he realized just how small a situation could of arise. A quick memory erase..that's all. And he would of also gotten that book..

Who was he kidding? The mewtwo descended back to the church as he thought to himself. He needed to be in control; keep his future in his own hands. When things went wrong or he made a mistake, it threw off his perfect little balance and to him that balance was the only thing keeping him safe nowadays. He could control the situation when someone caught a sight of him to his allowance, but when something happens like that reporter..

He landed beside the same Gargoyle as he took off by, stashing the books right inside the opening before staring at the stone beast. That thing lived as a protector of an empty building, and yet it seemed to be fulfilling it's own destiny. Don't think, Mewtwo reminded himself as he took off again, allowing no time to stop and dwell on the subject. He's living his life, and he was happy. To a sort. He had power, he knew, but he could not; no, Would not go about and use it recklessly. It would make him no better then the scum who lived in the city on drugs and stolen goods, and he refused to end up like the hunchback or Ulysses.

As Mewtwo flew towards the port he felt his body relax more; a useless moment of panic, everyone went though it at some time. He was in control again, back on plan. Get some food, and go home. Eat, Live, sleep. Simple. He couldn't screw this up.

The city looked so foreboding at night..


	4. Good Samaritan

Good Samaritan

-----

A pack of Pidgeys took flight into the late-night air, disturbed by the sudden slam and swing of an aged door that provided rooftop access to the short-structured building. Mewtwo stepped out into the cool night air, blinking snowflakes out out his eyes as he closed the door behind him. Interesting, he noted to himself as he crossed the gently sloping roof to the edge that bordered the alleyway. Always with the explosions or sappy love stories; for the third time that month he had witnessed something that could only be described as otherworldly.

The moving picture had never been a thing of interest to him. Watching it from the cramped rafter-space above the roofing was uncomfortable, having to stare through a small opening to view the screen at an absurd angle in the hot and stuffy space, and frequently he found himself itching uncontrollably in his fur. Mewtwo figured he wouldn't enjoy it anyways if he had been sitting at ground level with the humans that sprinkled the auditorium. Sitting there trying to follow a plot line that allowed no time to review and think about seemed lazy to him, and it was evident by the blank thoughts he was picking up from the humans below (with the minor interruption of amazement or humor) that their capacity for deeper thinking shrank dramatically as soon as they witnessed the opening credits.

The creature drew the cloak tighter around himself as a strong gust of wind sent a shiver up his spine. It had been snowing for the past few nights at irreguler moments, and a few deep inches of the stuff had already built up along the rooftops. Mewtwo reached the ledge of the building and peered over out of habit before taking off to be sure there were no wandering souls about; however his plans to return to his shelter shattered without his knowing as movement down below caught his eyes.

From the distance Mewtwo was at he couldn't be sure of the exact size or shape of the man, although from the misshapen form and the way the human stumbled in zig-zags down the alleyway with no notion of acknowledging things that may of been in its way he could tell that it was one of the cities many homeless citizens decked out in whatever clothing they may of recovered from a trash bin. A focused mental scan showed that he was indeed a drunk; the thoughts blank and incoherent to any train of normal thought. What really struck a note with the Psychic was how there was an underlying musical sort of tone in the homeless-man's mind; Pain. The mind was shutting down even now, and he was dying even as the Pokemon watched. Mewtwo was frozen in place as he stared; ignoring the wind and cold as he did a hesitant reach forward with his mind for a glance at the future for the man.

The future was a tricky thing; and it was still a kind of alien power to Mewtwo. Long ago he rejected the notion that the future was a fixed linear river that was unable to change; that mere thought scared him. Like so many humans he refused to think that his own life did not lie within in his power; frightened that the only thing he had left within his reach was nothing more then a movie to sit down and watch. Thankfully, to his knowledge, it did not work that way; or if it had he had assigned the sort of illusion of a multi-tiered path for the future. He could guesstimate certain events and calculate the probabilities assuming some basic limits, and by such the Psychic was able to see up to a few hours of the most likely cause of events. It was a Risk-management coordinator's dream; a supercomputer able to compute the near immediate future.

Mewtwo assumed the basic things; the human wasn't being chased by anything, no drastic change in the weather, and no chance of a cataclysmic event wiping out the city block. Then the more fine detail; the man had no pokemon, no weapon, and no clue as to where he was or where he was going. A few short seconds of further fine-tuning and he came out with an outcome; one that wasn't too bright or cheery. More adjustments; trying to throw things in the Man's favor, yet still he came up with the same outcome, death.

It was the city, the Psychic reminded himself as he forced himself to look away. People died every day due to their own actions or not. The pokemon thought to himself; he could of saved the man. It would be easy, almost cost no energy to his self. Hell, he even knew a place he could drop him off at. The How wasn't the problem, it was the why. Engaging emotions always led to something that was better off avoided, and he knew that helping one poor soul wouldn't stop the constant clockwork that the city went by. the act of charity may save the man's life, but it would be a constant buggering of interfering. He had come to live, not interact. It would be like trying to adjust a finely working clock. The City worked on its own terms, and violating the nature of that could have any kind of impact.

He was too human in that way, he noted to himself as he took off into the air; willing himself not to look back. Be another city-dweller, turn a blind eye on the needy and downtrodden. There were no heroes here, just those who wanted to make themselves feel better by giving a dollar or two. Just step over those who laid in the way and pretend not to see them. So long as the fantasy and dream was held without deviation there was no question of moral problems.

Don't look back. You'll only gain regret if you do.

Don't look back.

Mewtwo halted in the air, took a breath of air that seemed to sting his lungs with cold; realizing that his heart-rate had quickened without his knowledge

and looked back.


	5. Killing Time

The digital clock's number ticked forward, knocking off another minute in time.

Father Alan took a deep inhalation of his cigarette, unafraid of bothering his visitor with the scent as he breathed out a cloud of smoke into the air; casting a haze across the table where the two men sat. His guest looked like he was used to the stuff anyway.

"Don't come across many preachers who smoke," noted the other man, making Alan shift uncomfortably in his seat. No man was comfortable when their vices were pointed out, and Alan was no different.

"Technically I'm not a preacher," he said in a voice that rose just above a whisper before folding his hands before him on the tabletop, cigarette poised between fingers. "Only a…housekeeper, you could say."

His visitor sat hunched across from him, faded green eyes staring intently at the smoking cancer-stick as its skin slowly peeled back to reveal the grime below. Alan watched his visitor carefully, trying to peer through him rather then at him. He guessed those eyes were once brighter, fuller; yet they were now resided in a passive place to give up their color. He could almost hear a voice cry out 'What's the bother being bright'. That, or beer and drugs had long since smeared those windows with a film.

The vagrant easily towered over Alan even in that slumped posture. Shoulders broad, neck thickened; Alan guessed the man had been discharged from the army from the beaten Urban-camo jacket he wore along with the sewn in nameplate on the breast. What little color remained in his face had returned, but still with the little light and sunken cheeks Alan couldn't help but feel as if he was looking at a man who had indeed died hours before.

"I don't come across doorsteps either," growled the guest, his eyes twitching to the side to glance off in the direction of the exit. Alan had the feeling like the man had every urge to turn over the table and bolt for the door yet was being stopped by some larger force. A few seconds went by, another minute shot down by the clock that glowed on the far wall. It seemed like an age before the visitor spoke again in a less-then-friendly growl, "Never wanted charity, never ask." Alan remained silent; under the impression that the Vagrant blamed him for a thousand trespasses that he had never performed.

More silence in the room as the nightly city noise continued to buzz outside. Somewhere a train clattered noisily over tracks, a car rushing down the street outside; the click, hum, then hiss of a bus stopping somewhere on its dead-hour schedule. All of that could have been in another world, detached from this moment in time and place that contained only the table, lamp, and the two men. Even the sound of a pacing Growlithe somewhere in the next room was muffled by an unnatural aura.

"Why am I here?" The homeless man demanded suddenly, breaking the silence. Alan could almost hear the tinkling of it falling about him like glass in the mental echo his mind fabricated. He said nothing, raising a slightly shaking hand to take another long puff from his vice. He wished for a drink; then scolded himself. Long ago he had trained himself to be the listener, though years of being unheard from had turned him into this; the very manifestation of his scorn. Drinking, Smoking. What other sins could he had to his list by the end of the year? The once noble work of up keeping the nearby church had turned into a chore; more so when his suspicions and fears came to life to taunt him, attack him in the form of his own personal devil that made its home with him. 'Why am I here', the question came softer to Alan's ears even though his guest had spoken it louder, and it wasn't until the later outburst that Alan's mind snapped out of its mental dwellings.

It had happened too quickly for Alan to comprehend frame by frame, yet as he sat there now before an upturned table he still showed no surprise. With surprising power, even after the ordeal that he had gone through; the homeless man had gotten up, no. Leapt up out of his chair and tossed the table over onto its side; spilling over the bowl of leftover noodles and cup of tea that had been set upon it. To Alan, it was almost exactly like his mental picture he had minutes before. Even the way the man stomped off to the door was the same.

Without answers the man departed back into the snowy night, perhaps to find the solution himself. Alan remained in his seat, ignoring the frantic barks that were coming from his bedroom, and gazed about glumly at the mess that had been made. The wanderer had come to –his- house, -his- doorstep, and had demanded answers after Alan had nursed him back to health (Or consciousness. Alan doubted that the man would ever regain anything remotely healthy in common thinking or times), and had demanded answers to things that were beyond anyone of answering.

Alan had misunderstood the question at first; He had been in bed, he told his guest, and had been awakened by a crash at the front door. After getting up to investigated he found the door broken in and the man in a heap of rags as if he had been left there by some guardian spirit that had said 'Fine, I give up, take care of yourself then'. The Homeless man would have none of it, demanding that same question before settling down again, refusing to touch the food, asking two irrelevant questions, and then exploding in a fit of rage that now left Alan's kitchen in a state of dismay.

Alan stuck the cigarette between his lips and got up, moving around the disaster and towards the door. He had no expected his visitor to take anything, yet he still took mental stock of all his belongings as he retraced the homeless wanderer's steps. Pictures of a long forgotten moment, people he once knew and now didn't, or claim to forget. There was a small keepsake here, a piece of trash there; and the small mirror that hung on the wall beside the biblical quote he had tacked up half-heartedly. The man had only taken steps and left behind snow; and when Alan reached the door he could find no evidence except for a quickly growing puddle of water that the vagrant had left behind. Alan reached the door and laid once hand gently on the frame, leaning out to look into the growing light.

It was still just after midnight; that penultimate moment that transitioned between the stages of yesterday and tomorrow. His hut was attached to the chapel's courtyard, and in the gloom he thought he could make out the shape of some form in the distance running away. The words seemed to come back, clear as if the homeless man had spoken into a recorder and played it back inside Alan's head. 'Why am I here'? To hell if I know, Alan replied to his head voice as the last of his ash fell to the ground. He salvaged one last sip of the poisonous nectar before dropping it into the snow, scuffing it with a slipper to make sure it was out. The building and its attachment was stone-no real risk of a fire. Yet it was a habit that never broke. A bad one, time consuming and all anyway. Alan couldn't find his own reason for being here, how could he answer that question?

Cliché, he told himself. Just another citizen of this demon-den of a city. What was the purpose? Why? He had the feeling the homeless man wanted to die, to be left out in the cold to find what little solace he could in the night.

"Fuck you, Die then," Alan said aloud with a shrug to the falling snow, fingering the symbol he wore on his neck as he tacked on another sin to his mental list to be burned clean of. He hated this place, this city. Living beside the church was bad enough, to be reminded constantly of the imperfections of it all. No one was perfect, he reminded himself. That thought made him feel better for a moment; but it quickly left him

A sort of other force, sixth sense perhaps, that made Alan's look go skyway. For a brief moment he thought he could make out another form beside that of one of the gargoyles nearly halfway up the belfry. It vanished, and there was not a doubt in Alan's mind that the demon had been watching the entire exchange. Perhaps, even, puppeteer the entire thing to Alan's fault. It was taunting him, tempting him once again; showing the power of darkness and light in his face and challenging him to believe and fear in god knows what.

Alan turned away and tried his best to close the door behind him. He had a guest to tend to in the morning; needed to be sure the place was neat and clean.

"Dead?"

"Yeah, call it in."

The police officer straightened up from his squat and readjusted his hat. The bum was sitting against the wall just outside the movie theater, causing quite the stir after the last late-night movie had ended. Behind him his partner was speaking casually into his shoulder walkie-talkie, calling for the required personal to arrive with a body-bag and hearse. Great, the officer mumbled to himself as his partner continued on behind him. Just his luck..less then an hour near his shift's end and now he had to look forward to filing paperwork for a dead hobo. What, the bastard couldn't wait for a few more minutes and become someone else's problem?

Least he died smiling, the police officer noted to himself as he discarded the latex gloves on his hands and donned a pair of woolen mittens. Scratch one more burden of the city off; just another death that made the streets a bit more cleaner, the officer believed.

The clock that hung high over a nearby street-corner ticked off the first hour of the new day, killing yet another moment in time as Mewtwo above took off to return home.


End file.
